When He Falls
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Sherlock sustains a minor injury and John is protective.


In slow motion is how it looks when John watches Sherlock slip on the icy stairs. If he weren't so scared it would be comical to see that even Sherlock Holmes cannot look graceful when he goes arse over head. The pink cased phone flies up like slippery soap in an old cartoon. Miraculously it is undamaged when John retrieves it after helping Sherlock up from where he is ignobly sprawled at the bottom of the four stone steps.

Sherlock doesn't want John's help. "Get after them!" he yells. And then, "Where's my phone?"

By this time the officers of the Yard have arrived and Sherlock turns his vitriol towards them and for once John is in complete agreement. He can see that Sherlock's in pain, but Sherlock refuses his fussing either as a doctor or a lover, in favor of berating Donovan, Lestrade, Murchison and anyone else within earshot. And so John has to content himself with trying to make a diagnosis by observation alone. Walking—good—probably even Sherlock couldn't move about if he had a broken hip or a ruptured disc.

By now brilliance is of no use in the case, only plod-work, so he is able to persuade Sherlock to hail a taxi and head home. In the cab Sherlock sprawls facedown across John's lap.

"You're going to have to let me look at that injury when we get home."

"I don't have to let you do anything," is returned from where Sherlock's face is buried in John's hip.

"How bad is it? Do we need to go to emergency?"

"No," is said, small and petulantly.

At 221b, after a slow climb up the stairs, John follows Sherlock into the loo so they can both see the damage when Sherlock drops his trousers. Two purple circles have blossomed, each about the size of John's palm, on Sherlock's left buttock. The first starts in the cleft and extends to the dimple. The second starts in the middle and runs down to the bottom of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock is not wearing his purple shirt today, but John expects that were they to compare, the colours would be similar.

John palpates as gently as he can, checking Sherlock's coccyx for damage. All of the impact seems to have been taken by the one cheek. Sherlock hisses as John's fingers move across his skin, but he manages to joke, "Don't get any ideas."

Once again John is proud of his foresight in stocking up on what might seem an excessive number of liquid gel packs. He brings one wrapped in a dishtowel to where Sherlock is lying face down on the bed. With only a tiny amount of whimpering (on both sides), they manage to get Sherlock into his pajamas bottoms, the waistband helping to hold the ice pack in place.

The next morning the two circles have embraced each other to form a lurid Pangaea, barbell shaped, cupping along the round of the buttock. Sherlock alternates between trying to do too much and whining when he can't, to playing completely incapacitated and demanding that John do everything for him, as if John doesn't do enough of that already.

"When will it get better?"

"It's a hematoma, Sherlock. The body will have to absorb that blood for it to disappear completely. If it doesn't then we can talk about draining it, but I'd rather see how it goes for a time. You'll have discomfort because the tissue is damaged and the blood is in the muscle. It's just going to take time."

Sherlock scowls, from where he's lying on his side on the sofa.

When the colours start changing in the middle of the week, Sherlock takes pictures with his phone and insists that John chart the variations. By Wednesday the purple has striated into rings of aubergine and crimson, not unlike the coloring on a purple plum that is not quite ripe.

By the end of the week there is a third colour, a weak yellow in the center of each section. It reminds John of nothing so much as an illustrated topographical map. "Notice children that the dark purple indicates 0-50 meters above sea level, the pink is 50-100 and the yellow is 100 meters and above." More seriously he thinks about what would have happened if the accident hadn't been so benign. Sherlock could have fallen backwards and cracked his skull on the stones. He could have pitched forward to smack face down on the ground.

John's a doctor. He knows how close any human is to death all the time. He's seen people survive traumas that you think would kill them outright, and he's seen people die from the tiniest of injuries or infections. But Sherlock's lifestyle puts them both at more than average risk and this is just one more reminder. He's patched up a lot of bruises, cuts and burns in his time with Sherlock—Sherlock's and his own. Hell, even some of Lestrade's.

Sherlock has had no reason to go out all week (and is seriously grating John's nerves, Mrs. Hudson's good humor and the patience of anyone he can text), but then there is a case and despite the awkwardness in his gait and his obvious discomfort he insists on going. John has no grounds to object. It's not a serious injury, just a painful one.

In the cab Sherlock sits acant. John tries not to snigger.

At the scene (double homicide, wife and not husband, but Sherlock's sure not lover by the wife's sloppy clothes—one dresses up for a lover, he says—John wonders if this means that he and Sherlock are married) Sherlock has to bend down to investigate. John can see the flicker of pain in Sherlock's face at each move of his gluteus muscles.

He hears Sally whisper, "My God, the doctor broke him," to Anderson behind him. He smirks and thinks to himself, if I didn't break him during the first week he let me finally get my hands on him, I'm not going to break him now. And that was three months before any of you had any idea what was going on. But then he sees how her snark is getting to Sherlock. Sally doesn't call him freak or psychopath or sociopath any more. She admits he might have a heart, but she still doesn't trust him and he doesn't trust her. Sherlock doesn't want to admit that he's in pain, and he certainly doesn't want to discuss it with the Yard.

So John ups his BAMF Meter. Yes, he does know what it means, thank you.

"If you had done your job properly and gotten the information we needed before the stake out, then Sherlock wouldn't have had to apprehend your suspect and gotten injured in the process. Again, I might add."

There's silence. John doesn't do this. He's the nice one who smoothes things over. Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it and shuts it again.

Damn straight, thinks John.

The most annoying thing about her jibe is that there hasn't been any of _that_ since the injury. Sherlock can't lie on his back and any pressure on his backside is out of the question.

They are demonstrative lovers behind closed doors and this is the longest they've gone since it began. They try a 69, but it still requires Sherlock to hold his leg in uncomfortable positions. John knows when his lover's not gasping in pleasure. Handjobs have not gone well, and positioning for blowjobs has proved frustrating.

Sherlock solves the case with a quick call to an office on The Isle of Dogs to confirm his suspicion that the not-husband was in fact the husband's lover and was begging the wife to let her husband go. They were killed by HIS jealous former lover as evidenced by the way the man's body was laid out in relationship to the woman's.

John hurries them home and applies another ice pack to Sherlock, face down on the couch. They order in and open a bottle of wine.

After dinner John takes Sherlock into the bedroom, lays him down and gives him a shoulder massage, sitting at his head. It's peaceful and gentle, but touching Sherlock's back, feeling the muscles relax and yield under the soft skin is making John more heated than he would like.

He crawls down and rests his right cheek on Sherlock's right buttock. Cheek to cheek, he thinks. He also thinks that last glass of wine might not have been the best idea.

In theory he's looking to see if there is still any swelling. In reality he's just enjoying Sherlock's arse.

He kisses the uninjured side, the backs of Sherlock's thighs, down to the skin behind his knees.

"Stop, John," Sherlock whispers, "unless you've figured out something clever."

"Let's get in the shower."

"What?"

"Trust me. I'm a doctor."

He positions Sherlock leaning against the wall of the shower and places a pillow on the bottom of the tub so that Sherlock can just bend his leg, the position he finds most comfortable with the least strain on the muscles. He also puts a rolled up towel beneath his own knees and cups his hand around Sherlock's bony hip so that it's not rubbing against the cold tiles.

"Oh, John, my clever love," murmurs Sherlock as John strokes him to hardness and takes him into his mouth.

John holds Sherlock's hips still, pausing only to say, "Let me do the work," before returning to his ministrations.

It's over fast. Sherlock's wound up. John's wound up. Sherlock turns his face into the wall as he comes, struggling not to move his hips.

"What about you?" Selfish in most things, oblivious in many, Sherlock is always very fair in the bedroom. He doesn't come and roll over, which was a pleasant thing to discover.

So John stands, repositions the pillow so that Sherlock can face the wall and then slides himself part way in front of Sherlock, leaning back against the side. It's not perfect and John's going to have to do most of the work this way too, but it lets him kiss Sherlock and have Sherlock's long fingers stroking his chest and he too comes quickly into both their hands where they're twined on his cock.

John tosses the pillow and the towel out of the tub and showers them both gently, mainly letting the water flow over them.

By week three the bruise has faded to mostly yellow with grayish purple at the edges. It has also moved lower as the excess blood is drawn down by gravity but the sharp twinge of muscle pain remains in the middle of the buttock. Mrs. Hudson comments on the number of showers they seem to be taking.

Sherlock is fascinated by the way the pain lingers in some areas and not others and how certain spots are numb (John worries about serious nerve damage, but it clears up). And after healing begins and the bruises shift and fade, how for a long time there is still an odd twinge deep inside the muscle, as if something is catching and pulling.

John laughs at Sherlock's ability to experiment and track data in his own body, as if no one but he has ever felt pain before. He is amused by how Sherlock so often seems surprised by the sensations of his body, as if _he_ has never felt pain before. As if he is amazed that sometimes the transport breaks down. It is the same surprise he has in moments of pleasure, that he never considered that the life of the body might equal or even surpass the life of the mind.

John just enjoys the fact that he can run his tongue along the curve where Sherlock's arse meets his thigh. He hopes that next time, and there will be a next time and a time after that, he will be there to catch Sherlock as he falls.


End file.
